"Can you go now? I think I need to close the door and cry."

-Emma

"Holy shit."

This was the first thing anyone said when Kurt walked into the choir room that day.

It was Santana, sitting at the chair closest to the door, first to see Kurt's purple face and buzzed head from under his fedora-thing. His clothes, while obviously ten times better then anything anyone else had worn that day, lacked their usual…composure. Wrinkled here, untucked there, hardly noticeable to anyone who didn't knew the boy who wore them. But even Santana, who barely talked to the kid, felt how off the entire assemble was.

Kurt had kept his eyes down when he came in, froze and stiffened at Santana's sudden exclamation, but forced his feet forward and tried not to make a spectacle of himself. Shoulders squared, he pushed through the tangible silence.

Mercedes had saved him a seat.

And Finn just happened to be behind him.

He felt the other boy's breath on his neck as he leaned in and whispered, "You okay?"

"Fantastic," he replied lazily, though it was indeed a task with his burning ribs keeping him stiff as a board. The bandages and the clothes he wore (skinny jeans? Really?) made him claustrophobic and he didn't appreciate the close proximity of Finn's mouth (even if it was, you know, Finn).

"Okay," Mr. Shu began boisterously, striding into the room with his usual enthusiasm, "now that we have all our soloists back-"

"Soloists?" Kurt asked. While he was occasionally subject to a couple stand-alone tidbits from whichever grand finale they were performing that week, after the Diva-Off incident he'd assumed he'd never be so much as considered for an official solo until after Sectionals (assuming they got that far).

Will smiled in that at-times sickening way that screamed overcompensation and passed around sheet music; one to Kurt, one to Mercedes and one to Finn.

Mercedes' grin was the widest Kurt had seen it since she found a real Marc Jacobs blouse on sale at the mall. "When Your Good to Mama? I feel like I should be offended, Mr. Shu."

Finn made a face. "West Side Story?"

"Oh, quiet," Tina scoffed, looking at the sheet music from over Finn's shoulder, "'Something Good' is the most masculine song in the entire play."

"What'd you get, Kurt?" Mercedes asked.

Kurt looked down at his paper, smiled even though his face was stale as old bread. "Mika."

"Who's Mika?" Puck asked.

Outrage, personal insult, struck Kurt like lightning. "Who's Mika? Only one of the biggest pop acts in UK history-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Shu," Rachel started, only to be cut off by a momentous groan throughout the room.

"Can you, like, not," Brittany said. "My head hurts."

She looked indignant. "I was just going to ask-"

"Why you don't have a solo," Artie and Tina mocked in unison.

"Seriously, you and Finn have, like, ninety percent of the group performances," Santana snapped. "I think it's someone else's turn."

Kurt could have told you exactly what Rachel said next, except he had heard it before and he was far too content singing "We Are Golden" under his breath.

"Hey there, Hummel."

One large hand smacked against his back so hard he lost his breath, pushed him around and against the wall of the empty hallway. He looked down and saw the familiar site of white football pants, grass stains scattered around the knee.

He looked up and saw Azimio, a yellow bruise fading around his nose. His eyes had a psychotic glint, the same he had that night in the school parking lot and the same every other day of the week Kurt was forced to breath the same air as the Neanderthal.

Azimio was flanked by two other boys Kurt was sure he'd seen before (though it was hard to tell, seeing as all those jock types looked alike). They must have just gotten out of practice.

"So you run to your little fuck buddies when someone gives you a hard time?" he growled. "Fucking pussy."

"Your vocabulary is astonishing, it is," Kurt said, trying in vain to pluck Azimio's fist from his jacket, "but I really must be going…"

And so fast he didn't even know what it was, Kurt's face jerked to the side, bam, like a thunder bolt. His cheek smacked against the locker beside him and a thousand supernovas blinded him.

So blatantly, not even veiled by the blanket of night or the hides of his fellow teammates, Azimio had bashed his fist against Kurt's face like he was Rocky and this was a meat cellar. Kurt gasped for breath, his eyes widening in shock, surprise, rising pain inflaming in his cheek.

"Consider that an appetizer, fag," Azimio drawled, giving Kurt one final shove against the wall and striding off, his two flunkies following suit. "By the way," he called. "Love the hair."

Burt remembered Kurt's first (and last) football game fondly. He always skipped over the dancing, of course, right on to that ridiculous kick, that could have gone on forever, that gave Burt the moment he'd always wanted, standing in the bleachers at his son's game and watching that kid that he brought into the world become the star of the field. He could remember every detail of that kick, he really could. But he also remembered how little his son looked next to all those football players, how lithe and skinny and tiny he was. And that's what he thought now, when his son walked through the front door, hunched over from what could only be aching ribs, face pale but for fading bruises and-was that a new one? Why did he smell like old pizza? At least he was humming. But…

God, he was so small.

Hey, mom? It's Kurt.

I know your probably not listening, what with you spending all your time up there with Judy Garland and Bette Davis. I wouldn't want to be listening to my son either. But you don't have to really listen, I guess. I'll just talk and you nod once in a while.

So, you were probably never thrown into a dumpster or locker or sidewalk or anything, because I've seen your old yearbooks and you looked so beautiful and….normal, you know? So you probably don't know what I'm talking about, but I'll tell you its not fun. And it's getting worse. There's this clinically insane football player who sent me to the hospital last week and-yeah, dad was mad as hell. But these other kids-Finn, who I'm kind of in love with, and Puck who used to be my Head Tormentor I guess, they did that thing boys do where they have to beat the crap out of each other for things that have nothing to do with them…but yeah, it kind of made things worse.

Okay, the point of this is that I was wondering if this is always going to be how it is.

You know, am I going to have to wear a cup walking down the street my whole life? Do I need to dress like dad? Do I need to stop my moisturizing regimen? Because now that I'm basically bald, that's all that keeps me from losing it.

I just really want to cry, Mom. Like, all the time.

Like right now. I'm listening to Hairspray and I'm crying so hard my throat hurts, because I can't sing and I don't have hair and my face hurts and my ribs hurt and its all because I wasn't macho enough.

Please tell me it gets easier, mom. Ask Liberace or something.

Thanks. Tell Judy I said she's amazing.

A/N Mmmmmkay, so first off I'd like to apologize for referring to Azimio as Azimo this entire time, but that's what it sounded like to my wittle ears and, damn it, they've never failed me before. Thanks to all the folks who corrected me.

Second…I don't know. I'm writing this author's note before the actual chapter. Um, I guess I'll hate it, but maybe I'll like it. Either way, review and be HONEST. Like, if something sucks, or you don't like it, PLEASE TELL ME so I don't end up being one of those guys who writes like a three year old but doesn't know it cause everyone keeps telling them they kick ass. Don't let me be that guy.

Third. Um, I really hope I'm getting the pacing and characters right. The entire things seems really rushed to me, and maybe when I've finished the whole thing I'll fix it but for now I want to get out as many chapters as I can before I lose interest (because you know I will-just ask anyone who was reading my Twilight story.) But for now Glee is like my favorite show eva and I'd like to make a hurt!kurt fic that doesn't involve gratuitous hurt/comfort (not that there's anything wrong with that). Again, any critiques are welcome. And, um, apparently my grammar sucks? Feel free to point out specifics. Or beta. Anyone wanna beta?

Okay, fourth….thanks for reading?